Dearly Dismayed Debra
by Nogard
Summary: My take on how season seven could have gone. Dexter deals with the very real threat represented by Debra by imprisoning her, while the Ice Truck Killer makes a reappearance that seems to be more than in Dexter's mind.
1. Chapter 1

"Oh God," Dexter softly spoke, aware of the odd appropriateness of his chosen words given his religious discussion with his latest acquisition.

Across the church, Debra stood in full view of his kill. She silently stared as he gazed back.

She caught him. She discovered who he really was. All of Harry's and his own efforts to keep her from the dark secrets that surrounded her brother were invalidated. His sister knew.

This made her a threat.

What was she thinking? Was she going to attack him? No, he was her brother. Unless she perceived an imminent threat, she'd more likely run away and call for back-up. He needed to keep her here and hope she'd drop her guard long enough for him to subdue her.

"Deb…" he began, only for her to double over and vomit.

He cringed at the mess, its gross appearance and acrid odor polluting the simplistic beauty of his kill room. Great, DNA evidence linking her here. Fortunately, this gave him opportunity to make his move.

Releasing the knife, he stepped toward her with his arms outstretched to hug her. "Debra, it's okay. Calm down."

She snapped back up. "Stay the fuck away from me! And don't you fucking tell me to fucking calm down. Fuck!"

"Fair," he allowed, halting his approach. He dropped his arms. "I know this looks bad…"

"You _think_?" she cried. "Oh, shit fucking hell, Dex, what the fuck?" She stepped further away from him, but moving away from the door. Good.

"It's Travis Marshall," he said, indicating his freshly claimed prey with a tilt of his head. "He tried to kill Harrison."

She shook her head. "And you, what, thought going Hannibal Lector on his ass was a better idea than calling the motherfucking cops?"

He couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't make her see him as a clear and present danger. "Why don't you sit down, Debra, and I'll…"

"No, you sit down! Why don't you fucking sit down?" She took a step toward him aggressively. "Sit down and tell me just what the fuck…"

"I'm the Bay Harbor Butcher," he blurted out and then waited apprehensively for her response.

She stared at him. "The Bay…" She squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered. "Jesus fucking Christ, I can't fucking deal with this!"

Seizing upon the opportunity, he crossed the distance between them and grabbed her in a stranglehold, cutting off the blood flow to her brain. She gasped and clawed at his arm. When he didn't relent, she kicked him hard in the shin. He winced but kept a strong hold on her neck, and he felt the fight drain out of her as she collapsed into unconsciousness. Relaxing his hold, he let her body slump into his arms.

Good… That immediate problem taken care of, his eyes turned from his sister to Travis' corpse and the knife sticking out there so welcoming. It was like a sign from God, if he cared to put stock in such things. It would be easy enough to add another set of garbage bags on their way down the gulfstream.

He looked down at Debra's face. It would be very different without her in his life, a major gap in his usual experiences. Using his finger, he traced a line down her cheek, wondering if it was appropriate to collect her blood for a slide.

"Dexter, you can't just murder your sister like this," Harry insisted from over his shoulder. "Think about what Debra means to you, what she's done for you all these years."

"She's been a loyal friend, a good sister," he admitted, stroking her head. He smoothed out her hair. "But that's come to an end. She's seen what I am, seen my darkest face. There's no going back from that."

"She'll find it hard to trust you again, Dexter, but give it time," Harry said. "You're her brother. She cares about you."

"She's a lieutenant," he argued. "Her duty compels her to bring me to justice, to lock me away…" For the briefest instant, he felt the Dark Passenger slip into his mind and imagine itself in chains. It did not like that one bit, and he squeezed Debra hard. "Rule number one: never get caught…"

"Rule number two: never kill an innocent," Harry countered. "Debra is a law enforcement officer."

"Hardly worthy of my table," he murmured. "Still, I can't just let her go…"

A plan forming, he laid her on the floor and turned to his staged kill. "I'll make it look like the Doomsday Killer abducted her, send the police on a wild goose chase."

"And Debra?" Harry asked.

"I'll have to keep her safe and secure." He walked over to his supplies, retrieved a roll of duct tape and secured her arms and legs through hogtying her. He tugged to make sure her restraints held firm.

"Hardly for her benefit," Harry said scornfully.

"No, it's for mine," he agreed. "Something tells me she won't be very happy with me. Anyway, I'm keeping her alive, so you've got nothing to complain about."

"Oh, Dexter…"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: My first real foray into the _Dexter_ fandom. I don't quite have my feel for the characters, but I'll give it my best effort. I don't see anyone writing about Dexter reacting in quite this manner. Should be fun, though perhaps not for Debra.


	2. Chapter 2

He had to work fast. After draining a sample of Travis' blood for a hoax, he cut up the body and set up the series of garbage bags at record pace so he could stage Debra's disappearance. Her vomit would actually work in his favor to establish a link between her disappearance and the Doomsday Killer, who would have returned to the scene of the crime. He just needed to be long gone by the time anyone showed up.

"Oh God, what the fuck…?" Debra groaned as she woke. Realizing her predicament, she started to thrash around, but her bonds held. "Uh…? What…?"

"Sorry, Debra, can't talk," he told her, covering her mouth with a piece of tape. "Things to do."

She grunted unintelligibly through the gag, though he caught a series of grunts with the beats of "Motherfucker!"

He picked her up in his arms, something she did not like one bit, and carried her out to his car. He placed her in the trunk and lined the space around her with trash bags for efficiency. "I'll be right back," he assured her and closed the trunk.

"MMMPH!" she protested, but he judged her as secure enough to ignore.

He drove the car away from the church by about a mile and parked it just off of a disused side road. He got out, walked to the back and gave the trunk door a short knock to let Debra know he hadn't forgotten about her. He then jogged back to the church to stage her disappearance.

Debra left her car just outside. Good. Its windshield would make a decent canvas. He took a paintbrush from the church and retrieved the sample of blood. Dipping the brush in the blood, he painted out a choice selection of words quoted from First Corinthians: _Women should remain silent in churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission._

Maybe not worthy of a tableau, but it was good enough to pass for a hateful message from the religious nut. Leaving the paintbrush on the hood of the car, he placed Travis' phone—video of the false prophet neatly erased—off to the side of the church where Travis could have dropped it accidentally. He gave his former kill room one last pass before sneaking off for good.

Returning to his car, he gave the trunk another knock so she would know he came back. He drove to the docks. As usual, it was dead quiet and perfect for dumping bodies.

He opened the trunk. Debra lay there whimpering, tears soaking her face. When she looked up, though, the sobs stopped, and she boldly glared defiance at him.

"I understand you don't like me right now," he spoke quietly, "but I honestly don't want to hurt you. If you promise to behave, I'll take you on my boat and we can talk."

Two sharp grunts, easy to translate. "Fuck you!"

"Or if you want to be a miserable bitch, you can stay here by yourself." He pulled the bags out and shut Debra in the trunk. She couldn't speak, her grunts were muffled by the trunk door, there was no one around to hear her, and with her restraints she was unlikely to attempt an escape. Still, he would feel more comfortable once he got her in a more permanent enclosure.

In exactly what enclosure he could keep her, he wasn't sure. When Doakes learned his secret, Dexter kept him in the drug runners' cabin. That wouldn't work anymore, for what felt like divine intervention had reduced the place to ashes along with Doakes.

Perhaps it would be easier to kill Debra, but the Code was clear. Besides, she was too familiar a presence for him to dispose of so quickly. He would keep her as a captive indefinitely. That meant a lot of planning for her well-being, like having another child. Unlike with Harrison, though, Dexter's dependent Debra would stay utterly secret, so he could expect no help with her.

Taking the _Slice of Life_ out to the gulfstream, he dumped the trash bags and thought about where to keep her. A hotel room might have to do in the short run, though that wasn't very secure. Dear Debra could make enough noise to alert the staff. He could look for an apartment in a shady area where people wouldn't be so nosy as to investigate a woman's cries, but that would put her in danger of being assaulted by any prowlers. What he really needed was a building out of the way where he could put her and trust her to remain safe and secure. Perhaps it was time for him to pursue purchasing his own little cabin in the woods.

When he got back to the car and opened the trunk once more, he found his sister turned around. The tape around her ankles was damaged. He guessed she had been rubbing it against the lock.

"Nice try, Sis." He applied another piece of tape and flipped her around.

She grunted what he was sure was a string of curses.

"I love you too," he snarked, shutting the door.

He drove to a disreputable motel. It was the kind of place where one would be surprised not to encounter drug dealing or prostitution. He paid for two nights for a room on the ground floor and quickly carried her inside. Setting her on the bed, he closed the curtains and locked the door.

"Okay, Debra," he said, sitting on the bed beside her. "We can talk. If you try screaming for help, I'll just gag you again. Understand?"

Blinking away tears, she nodded.

He removed the tape covering her mouth, and she gasped.

"Fucker!" she spat, though quietly. "Motherfucking bastard!"

"Okay," he accepted her opinion, though he thought he had been very polite under the circumstances. "Well, that's not very constructive, so let's talk about the things I'm sure you've been wondering about."

She took in a ragged breath. "The… Bay Harbor Butcher?" she got out.

"I never liked that name, but yes," he said. "Doakes was innocent. I framed him."

"Oh, cocksuck!" she exclaimed, her voice squeaking. "Did you, um, kill him?"

He shook his head. "No, that was…" An act of God? "Lila. She thought she was helping."

"That pale bitch?" She craned her head upward, her face twisted in scorn. "She's in on this too?"

"She _was_," he responded, pausing to let the implications of that sink in. "She's just a trophy now."

She looked disgusted. "You take trophies, you sick fuck?"

"Nothing messy, just a drop of blood," he said. "You remember, don't you? The box of blood slides?"

"The ones you framed Doakes with, you mean?" she said. "Yeah, I remember. Jesus fuck, Dex, what the hell? How could _you_ be the fucking Butcher?"

This was it. This was when the entire web of lies Harry and he constructed would be torn down in an instant.

"I need to kill," he said. He swallowed, trying to find the words. Something that was so familiar to him was strangely hard to describe when he spoke to her. "An urge… This Dark Passenger compels me."

"Fuck me," she said, her anger fading away to be replaced by fear. "You're a fucking psychopath? Fuck, Dexter, how could you be a fucking psychopath?"

"Sociopath," he corrected. "Psychopaths aren't nearly as diligent. If I were a psychopath, you probably would have known. Sociopaths—we're smart enough to hide. I can't take all of the credit, though. Harry helped hide the horrific hostility of his deadly destructive Dexter from his wife and daughter."

"Harry?" She relaxed her neck, laying her head down on the blanket. "You're lying. He would never…"

"Harry saw my true potential," he said. He shifted position so that he lay down facing her. "He knew I had to kill, so he made me his own personal serial killer. I perform a crucial community service killing those killers the police let slip free. Harry made the Bay Harbor Butcher."

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She only gasped and stared at him.

"Harry helped," he said, "and then when he died, I was experienced enough to fool you and everyone else on my own."

"No," she muttered. "No, no, no, no, no…"

He tried not to roll his eyes. She was a weak human, so limited, and he needed to be patient. "Deb, it's okay," he said to try to get her to snap out of it. "I'm not going to kill you. You're safe."

"I'm safe, huh?" she said, tears beginning again. "I don't feel real fucking safe!"

"Well, I can't have you going off and telling everyone I'm the Butcher," he explained. He gave her bonds a tug. "These are just for my security."

She whimpered. "What if I promise not to tell anyone, huh, Dex?"

He raised an eyebrow. "And I believe you because…?"

"I love you," she offered softly. "And you can k-kill me if I talk."

"I could try, but you know the odds wouldn't be in my favor," he said. "No, I'll keep you myself where I know you won't be able to end my freedom… my life."

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Dex…"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> What's the different between a sociopath and a psychopath? Good question! No one seems to agree. Some use them interchangeably, while others agree that there are two sets of traits that go along with the lack of a conscience and try to match those to sociopath and psychopath. Problem is, no one agrees which is which. As Dexter talks about not wanting to become a psychopath when he thinks he's losing control in _Darkly Dreaming Dexter_, I presume in the book he considers himself a sociopath and that Lyndsey considers sociopaths the intelligent ones that can fool closest friends and family. In the show, Dexter once calls himself a psychopath, but that's in a flashback with him as a kid, and you could say he changed his mind later after doing more research.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Oops, _Dexter_'s just about caught up with me. Oh, well. This is what I've got so far.

* * *

><p>"I'll get you a more permanent home soon," Dexter assured his sister, patting her arm. "Somewhere I don't have to keep you so tied up. Until then, you should be okay like that."<p>

"Fuck you, Dexter," she mumbled wearily.

Yes, she was secure enough for the time being. It was time to leave. He was tired and needed to be back home in time to be suitably shocked by Debra's disappearance.

He stood up. "I've got places to be, Debra. People to kill, you know?"

It was a joke. The Dark Passenger had its fill with Travis, and though dear Debra's death would have pleased it, its thirst didn't plague his thoughts. It now slept, and Dexter's energy abated with it. Debra didn't seem to like his attempt at levity.

"So, what? You're just going to leave me like this?" Despite having more than adequate warning, she looked quite worried.

"Do you want me to tuck you in?" he asked out of courtesy. He could pull back the covers, set her on the sheet, and pull the blankets up over her. He would be careful to keep her nose from being covered and would prop up her head with a stack of pillows. It would be moderately comfortable, a nice gesture on his part.

"No, I don't want you to fucking tuck me in, motherfucker," she said, too full of herself to see his show of respect. "I want you to take off this fucking tape."

"Deb…" He shook his head.

It was too dangerous. Far too dangerous. She was a trained fighter and could take him out. She wasn't an idiot, so she had to see the risk, making it probably that she was trying to set him up.

"Dexter, come on," she whined. "Everything's sore. I don't even do this kind of bondage for my boyfriends. The least you could do is tape me in a more comfortable position."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you could make a break for it while you're free? I don't think so."

"Dexter, I promise I won't," she said, pleading with her eyes.

"You promise," he repeated skeptically. He walked around the bed to appraise her from every angle. "You _promise_?"

Her muscles were tense. She was ready to move the second she was free. Her face was strained with, yes, pain, as she described. He also observed fear and anger. She would almost certainly lash out at the first opportunity.

"Say you want to be tied in a more comfortable position," he commanded, studying her face. "Go on, tell me."

"…I want to be tied in a more comfortable position," she said, and he could tell she lied. Too fucking angry.

"Okay," he said neutrally. "I'll get the tape. Don't you go anywhere."

"Fuck you sideways," she snapped in response.

To limit visibility of the room from the outside, he turned off the lights before stepping through the threshold. He didn't waste time and swiftly retrieved the roll of tape. Returning, he turned the lights back on again.

"There was someone else in here, cocksucker," she complained.

"What?" he asked with bemusement. He looked around, not seeing anyone.

"You don't turn the lights off when someone else is in the room," she said, very impertinent for a woman hogtied on a bed alone with a serial killer.

He looked at the switch. "Oh."

He blinked. "Sorry."

"Well? Aren't you going to let me out?" she prompted.

He sat next to her. "Unfortunately, Debra, I'm not sure I can trust you just yet," he said in his best apologetic voice. Without another word, he took a piece of tape and went to cover her mouth.

Startled, she jerked back her head. "Dexter! Wait! Dexter, I need to take a piss. Just hang on a moment. I need to take a piss."

He paused. It could be a ruse. On the other hand, Debra pissing herself would be very messy and make her smell bad. Not seeing the need to waste the tape, he smoothed it onto her mouth and nodded. "Alright."

Pulling her into his arms, he carried her into the bathroom while she protested with inarticulate groans and mumbles. He rested her stomach against the sink while he removed the tape holding her bound ankles to her likewise bound wrists.

Her body jerked as her legs fell limply down, and she exhaled a sigh of relief. Maybe it wasn't a ruse after all. Aw, well, better safe than sorry.

He hooked a finger under her waistband and tugged down her pants and undies, which fell to her ankles.

She grunted a complaint, but he ignored her. There was no way he was leaving her unsupervised. He knew how resourceful his sister could be. If she needed to piss so badly, she would do it on his terms.

He carried her over to the toilet and set her ass down on the seat. "Go ahead, Deb."

She glared at him and grunted something that was either "Dexter!" or "Fucker!" He strongly suspected the latter.

"Here," he said, turning the faucet on in the sink.

"Mmmrph!" she complained, her cheeks turning red.

"Try to relax," he told her.

She gave him an incredulous look.

"Maybe talking would help," he suggested. He reached over and peeled the tape off her mouth.

"Oh, motherfucker!" she yelped. She scrunched up her face. "Okay, now my hands."

"Not a chance," he said, sitting down on the counter. When he looked down at her, he was careful to keep his eyes focused only on her face. He felt he was polite enough for that. "I know how smart you are, Deb. You could be very… problematic with your hands free. Consider it a complement."

"Fuck you," she said. "At least turn around."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I can't piss with you staring at me like some kind of perv," she said. "Come on, I'm fucking taped up like one of Masuka's love dolls. At least give me some kind of privacy!"

After a moment's consideration, he decided to grant her request. He stood up and turned his back toward her, looking pointedly away from the mirror. It would be a good test of how willing his sister was to be a well-behaved captive.

It didn't come as much of a surprise when Debra tried to headbutt him from behind. He quickly snapped back around and knocked her against the wall. Grabbing her shoulders, he forced her ass down on the toilet seat. "Alright, now you've got exactly sixty seconds to take your piss because then I'm securing you for the night whether or not you're done, understand?"

She grimaced and closed her eyes. He felt her relax, and she then finally relieved herself.

"Thatta girl, Deb," he praised her as he might praise Harrison. "You're a champ."

It was funny how much she reminded him of taking care of Harrison. She whined and complained about the simplest of tasks, acted out when he showed her leniency, but was able to shut up and behave the moment he put down a firm hand. Maybe all humans acted the same way when circumstances forced them to be dependents of an authoritative figure. He recalled Harry disciplining Debra… especially whenever she stuck her nose into their business.

"I guess you didn't want this to happen," he commented to Harry.

"No," Harry sighed. "Though I didn't think you'd go this far, I knew that if your sister ever discovered…"

"My Dark Passenger?" he supplied.

"…That her life would never be as fulfilling as it would were she to remain in ignorance," Harry continued. "Ignorance is a precious thing, and it was my gift to her. Now, even if you do let her go, as you should…"

He snorted, tightening his grip on her.

"…Her sense of security has been violated, and that's something she may well never get back," Harry concluded.

"And who was it who forged such a fragile reality so easily violated by simple truths?" he shot back, turning to glare at his foster dad.

"What?" Debra asked, following his gaze.

"It's nothing," he said, pulling her to her feet.

Despite being rather impolite, he intended to keep her clean and so wiped down her nether regions, much to her embarrassment. Ever the neat monster, he washed his hands as he kept her carefully pinned against the sink. Debra finally seemed to have run out of insults and seemed willing to behave. Not that he trusted her in the slightest.

Pulling her into his arms, he brought her back to the bed and set her down. "Okay, Deb, thanks to that stunt, I'm going to hogtie you again, but I'll give you the choice of being left facedown or up."

She was silent for a moment as she thought. She finally snapped, "_Sideways_."

He chuckled. "Very well, my daringly defiant Debra."

He secured her bonds and laid her on her side. "I have to go now. I promise I'll be back as soon as I can to feed you and help you to the bathroom and such as you need it."

"Shit, Dexter, I'm not a pet hamster," she complained.

"No, you don't have a wheel," he said dryly.

She would also be significantly harder to take care of than the small rodent. He wouldn't have to worry about a hamster escaping and telling the cops about the Bay Harbor Butcher's surprising identity. Why couldn't Harry have bought a hamster instead of fathering a deathly dangerous daughter?

"Hey, Dexter? The gag isn't really important, is it? It's not like I'm going to call for help in this neighborhood all tied up, right?"

He answered by gagging her. True, her argument had some sense in it, but it would be beyond foolish to trust the kidnapping victim to be honest with her kidnapper about her assessment of her potential to escape. Possibly Deb had a plan up her sleeve. It couldn't hurt to be appropriately cautious.

He turned on the TV to create background noise to cover up any Debra sounds. "Look, they've got free cable. You can watch… um, whatever's on after _Homeland_."

Debra grunted a "Fuck you."

He smiled politely to counter his sister's rudeness. "Good night, sis."

Remembering not to turn off the light, he left the motel room and drove home. He needed to rest. It would be a big day tomorrow, having to investigate his sister's disappearance and appear appropriately distressed about it. Meanwhile, he needed to come up with a more permanent solution to his sister dilemma.

As he entered the apartment, he noticed an open package sitting on the counter. Presumably, Jamie brought it in. It was probably nothing, but curiosity led him to take a look inside. There was…

He reached in and pulled out the artificial hand. It was unmistakably the prosthetic of Monique Ness, the eighth victim of the Ice Truck Killer. But it had been altered. Strange patterns had been painted on, new, puzzling.

"A challenge," he murmured. "From you?"

"But of course, baby brother," Brian agreed. "It takes a lot more than exsanguination to truly rid the world of me. I gather you're up for another round?"

"I am," he said. "I really, really am."


End file.
